


In Which the New Receptionist Provides Distraction for Grantaire

by downtheroadandupthehill



Series: World's Worst Receptionist Enjolras [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Sorry Not Sorry, and all over the place, office romance AU, some ideas borrowed from The Office, the start of a series in which these dummies work in an office together, unabashedly ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the new receptionist pushes up the sleeves of his red button-down shirt, it’s like fucking pornography, Grantaire concludes, and should not be allowed in a professional environment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which the New Receptionist Provides Distraction for Grantaire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luchia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchia/gifts).



When the new receptionist pushes up the sleeves of his red button-down shirt, it’s like fucking  _pornography_ , Grantaire concludes, and should not be allowed in a professional environment. Beside him, he can hear Jehan’s telltale snicker, which he does his best to ignore in favor of continuing to stare at the new receptionist.

He should stop staring, probably. Because staring is creepy and Grantaire doesn’t want to be creepy, but it’s not fair that his shirt fits him so well and it’s only 9:30 in the morning and they’ve only been here for half an hour but somehow he’s already loosened his tie to bare the slightest glimpse of collarbone and—yes, Grantaire needs to stop staring. But now on top of all that the receptionist has his sleeves rolled up and his forearms are tan and slim with just a hint of muscle and all of sudden Grantaire has a forearm kink that’s emerged out of nowhere. He probably needs to get laid, that’s all. It’s been awhile, and has kicked things into overdrive, apparently, provoked by the  _new goddamn receptionist_ , of all people.

The man surveys the phone like it’s a battlefield, instead of a relatively harmless communication device, glaring down at it with a threatening, calculating glint in his eyes. A little intense, for a job where all he has to do is answer the phone and make copies and fax things. Then again, maybe he just needs to get laid, too. Or, at least, Grantaire can hope.

“What’s his name?” Grantaire asks Jehan, in an undertone. Their manager, Valjean, had probably introduced the new hire at the beginning of the day. While Grantaire was running late for work, as usual. There’s spilled coffee down his front and a pen stuck in his hair, so he has no intentions of greeting the new guy today, not if he can avoid it. Even if he’s fortuitously seated ten feet from the front desk, and if the receptionist stopped glaring at the phone for one second, he would glance up and happen to meet Grantaire’s creepy gaze—Grantaire can still try to avoid him. Tomorrow he can wear his best green shirt and make an attempt at brushing his hair, and maybe then he’ll go about his mission of seducing the new receptionist.

Sounds like a plan.

“His name’s Enjolras,” Jehan says.

“Jesus fucking Christ. I am definitely going to mispronounce that a lot.”

Jehan shrugs, returns to the Very Important game of Minesweeper on his computer.

Valjean emerges from his office, then, with a genial smile for all of his employees. He gives Grantaire a nod of acknowledgement, doesn’t scold him for being late for the third time that week (and it’s Wednesday), which Grantaire is grateful for. He despises his job, but he likes his boss well enough—he’s the actual most caring person Grantaire has ever met, aside from Valjean’s daughter, Cosette, who brings everyone lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays when she’s finished with classes before noon.

(There was also that time Cosette brought them all lunch, and proceeded to sneak down to the warehouse with her father’s assistant Marius for a quick bit of cunnilingus, while Grantaire was nice enough to distract Valjean by starting a minor fire in the microwave.

They don’t talk about that time.

And it may have happened more than once. Grantaire isn’t allowed to use the microwave anymore. Which isn’t abnormal, actually. Bossuet isn’t either.)

Valjean walks over to reception, hands Enjolras a folder.

“Can you make three copies of these spreadsheets for me?” he asks kindly. “And then fax them to corporate, as well. Their number is here,” he adds, gesturing to where all of the important information is taped to Enjolras’s desk.

“No problem,” Enjolras says, and takes the folder. Valjean returns to his office, and Enjolras stares down at the folder looking lost.

“Do you want some help?” Grantaire offers. He looks like complete and utter shit today, so this probably isn’t the best idea, not really. But lost-looking-Enjolras is too adorable to  _not_  try and help.

“No.” Enjolras doesn’t even look at Grantaire as he stands up, strides over to the copier—circa 1989—dripping with fake confidence. “How hard can copiesbe?” He leans over, peers down at the button pad, presses something, and it would be a lie if Grantaire said he wasn’t staring at his khaki-clad ass in the meantime. The copier growls, shudders silent. Taking this to mean it’s working, he puts the folder in the machine, and waits. Stares.

Grantaire knows he ought to say something, but this is much more fun. Although Jehan is staring intently at his computer screen, he knows what’s going on and tries to suppress his smile.

Enjolras presses another button, then five at once. The copier just grunts, stutters, and proceeds to print out at least a dozen images of the manila folder that Enjolras stuck inside. He picks up the copies in wonderment, looking utterly baffled.

“These don’t look like spreadsheets,” he mumbles to himself. Hearing Grantaire’s answering laugh, he turns to glare, narrowing his eyes. “What’s so funny?”

Nope, Grantaire can’t keep his mouth shut to save his life. “Are you quite sure you don’t want some help with that?”

The blond man—Grantaire has never really been into blondes, until now, apparently—looks Grantaire up and down, and his glare seems to grow fiercer as he does so, and a rush of pink rises in his cheeks. Positively adorable. “Maybe you can show me how it works,” he finally concedes, though with a tone in his voice that suggests that since it appears that Grantaire can barely dress himself in the morning, he probably doesn’t know how to work the copy machine, either.

Grantaire stretches lazily—he’s not trying to show off the definition in his chest and arms, nope, not at all—slips out of his desk chair and bows. “It would be my pleasure.”

At Enjolras’s side he explains what to do and what buttons to press and when, surprised when Enjolras still manages to do everything absolutely wrong and print out forty copies of the same damn manila folder. Finally Grantaire does it himself, prints out three copies of each spreadsheet as Valjean had requested, and hands them to Enjolras.

“Here you go.”

And Enjolras is staring at him, wide-eyed and mouth agape. “You have some of dark magical powers, don’t you?” he says, though he also takes the copies gratefully.

“Think you manage the fax machine?”

After ten minutes of Enjolras trying and failing to figure out which way to put the papers in, Grantaire ends up doing that, too.

“Does everyone have to sell their soul to Satan to work the electronics around here?” Enjolras growls. He takes the finished work to Valjean, while Grantaire returns to his desk. Jehan has abandoned Minesweeper in favor of typing away in a maniacal fury, and Grantaire fondly suspects he’s writing a sonnet about love at first sight over a copy machine.

A few minutes later, with Enjolras back at reception, the phone rings, and Grantaire stops pretending to work to look back up at the new receptionist.

He picks the phone up carefully, recites: “Montreuil-sur-Mer Industries, this is Enjolras,” in a calm, professional voice, and Grantaire feels himself breathe a sigh of relief. At least the new guy can manage something on his own, it seems.

“I’ll transfer you over to him right away,” Enjolras continues.

And hangs up.

Though by the satisfied smile he gives Grantaire, it appears he thinks he accomplished his goal of successfully transferring the call as requested.

Grantaire can only sigh dreamily and smile back.


End file.
